


i once held your skin

by therewithasmile



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon), Young Justice (Comics)
Genre: Angst, Companion Piece, Complete, Drabble, F/M, One Shot, Prompt Fill, also sorry la'gaan u always get the short end of the stick, hoo wee big boy angst, i blame jess she hurt me first, set during their break up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 03:54:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17480687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/therewithasmile/pseuds/therewithasmile
Summary: ‘You’re cold.’That doesn’t make sense. Martians don’t get cold -- not easily anyways, not here.‘Come here.’-Set between seasons 1 and 2, in which M'gann realizes there's much more to this swath of emotion and she could barely begin to decipher it.





	i once held your skin

**Author's Note:**

> this is meant to be a companion piece to @drowninglinguist's ficlet, "I sleep better when you're around". The implied dialogue won't make sense without knowledge of it. Read it first here: 
> 
> https://archiveofourown.org/works/17479940
> 
> -
> 
> Both of these works were inspired by prompts from tumblr, hers was her title, mine was "You're cold, come here". So while you may see some similarities in themes with 'phantasmata', they're unrelated (though perhaps could take place in the same timeline). Like "I sleep better when you're around", this takes place in between seasons 1 and 2; approximately a couple months after their initial break up.
> 
> written while listening to First Week (acoustic) by Vera Blue. Might help with some mood setting.

Strong arms. Warm heart. Soft skin. A broad chest she could rest on, bury her nose within.

‘ _You’re cold.’_

That doesn’t make sense. Martians don’t _get_ cold -- not easily anyways, not here.

‘ _Come here.’_

She wants to, she truly does; there’s something familiar in those arms and his chest and the _scent_ , a warm mug of hot chocolate beside a fresh fir tree, like coming home from a long day, a blanket of comfort she can wrap herself in to ease the aches and soothe her into a fuzzy state of contentedness.

It’s all so close to her, so _real,_ that it’s much too easy to forget that once, it’d all been hers, too.

When she jolts awake, it’s somewhere within the gaping silence that reminds her that she’s alone. That she did this to herself. That she might always be alone. That he isn’t – _won’t –_ be here.

Part of her knows it’s unfair. She had someone else, someone who would still comfort her and stroke her hair and give her compliments and make her feel _good_. About herself. Even though deep down, she –

No, she didn’t want to confront that.

Not yet.

.

She doesn’t know what possesses her to say it.

The words slip out and she wants to snatch them away from the fragile silence, a silence she already knows she’s shattered beyond repair. His eyes widen and for one, long, _stupid,_ second, she searches them for something, _anything_ –

But the response is scathing. It’s angry and hurt and a voice deep down maybe agrees that he’s _right._

So she’s defensive. She tries so hard to convince him, twice as much herself. But – “ _but—“_ she has no response. The words come faster than she can stop it and she tries to wrestle back control and she _knows_ its unfair. She’s so _unfair._ She knows that much. Every time he looks at her with those eyes, that hard gaze, so irrevocably changed that the vulnerability she once cherished had been swept out of sight, she’s only reminded again.

Her arms itch for something, _someone._ La'gaan? _Him_? Someone who could make her forget her mistakes and remind her she’s right because she _was_ right in the first place and if she’s to doubt that now, it would mean fixing at least two years of mistakes, and she – she just _couldn’t –_ handle that.

Not now.

But his response is cold and short and just one mere syllable, and though he’s never really been one for long conversations, the him in his memory could’ve said just as much but it, it was always just so much warmer.

Truthfully, if she were ever just _cold_ , just his voice once was enough.

.

 Open arms. Soft chest. Delicate skin. A kind heart she would learn to love.

She _would._

“You’re cold.”

“That’s silly,” she says gently. “Martians don’t get cold.”

He laughs. It’s a different sound she’s used to. Not as throaty; not as soft. “Angelfish, come here.”

She presses a hand against him. There’s vague resistance there, different from one she’d once known.  

She can still hear his voice, whispering the same words, detailing each syllable in a way that makes her heart do an awkward flip flop even all these years later, in ways _his_ didn’t, couldn’t even get close to.

She doesn’t truly understand. She’s not ready to face those emotions she’s safely locked away, underneath layers of discomfort and uncertainty and a new whirlwind romance on its heels, a storm fleeing away from the place she’s too scared to confront.

His embrace isn’t quite the same. There’s a part that sighs into it, a part she desperately wants to grow, but another that recoils. Another that she swallows down. Another that joins that evergrowing pit of things to think about one day. After all this.

_After what?_

He must’ve sensed her discomfort. He whispers something into her ear, soft murmurs that should’ve soothed her. But his chest is different and his arms aren’t as strong. The blanket is different. Fresh sea water on a summers day, warm sun and the smell of salt on her lips. It blinds her eyes, drowns away any regret she may have had; and it’s different. She could learn to love it. She really could.

But she didn’t.

Not yet.


End file.
